It's All About The Spin

Father forgive me, I am a spinner. Hail Mary, full of pace…er…grace.

My lone wolf forays, prowling the gym, pitting myself against treadmill, dumbbell and my own inner demons, are over. I now partake in a group activity and a very sticky one at that. In a dimly lit room reverberating with seven trillion decibels of the kind of high-energy electronica usually only absorbed by Ketamine-soaked ravers, we sit on stationary bikes and peddle with impotent fury. We unashamedly swamp the floor with gallons of sweat and bring our hearts within a beat or two of bursting. Other than filtering through US immigration, it is the most incredibly intense way to pass 45 minutes you will ever encounter.

Back in Blighty things are different. You go to the gym because there are bits of you that keep on moving even when the rest of you has stopped. Or you go because you drink like Oliver Reed and feel guilty enough about it to spend the rare sober moment in shorts and trainers, trying to recapture that essence of being a 14 year-old in the school sports hall with more energy bouncing around inside than you know what to do with. Maybe you’re even one of those strange types who maintain that the treadmill can trounce a hangover. (Though I believe there is something deeply psychologically wrong with these people. On some level they are running away from themselves. At seven miles an hour. With a five and a half incline). Here in NY, exercise is executed with a ferocity only equalled within the dating scene. Lithesome lovelies and fibrous fellows suck it up, shake it down and pound it out, even though they already posses the kind of physiques that inspired Michael Angelo (And Michael Barrymore). Pilates and yoga classes are stuffed full of flexible men and women who will never know the agony of having an itch they can’t scratch.

I believe there is something else at work here. These people clearly don’t have physical hang-ups hanging them up. So why do they push themselves so hard? Perhaps exercise is their therapy, an antidote to the work hard, play hard, screw hard New York scene. Everything about Manhattan is intense, an attribute particular to island metropolises. Her inhabitants exhibit the same frantic behaviour as the ever-increasing bacteria confined in a science lab Petri dish.

Our spin ‘guru’ is charismatic, which is probably why an overflow of would be worshippers wait in line on the off chance that someone doesn’t show. He barely peddles at all, instead striking statuesque, sometimes contorted poses and hurling motivational phrases with the strange but alluring combination of drill-instructor-come-Buddhist mentor. He reminds me of those Italian traffic cops who dance on pedestals amidst crazy August rush hours. Except, our guy comes with a Lycra membrane and a 200 Watts Per Channel Amplifier instead of a whistle. The first time he ardently added “get up and get up and riiiide!” to the thumping soundtrack I laughed a little. I looked around the room for someone with whom to share a bemused ‘what the hell…?’ look. No takers. No one else seemed to think there was anything untoward going on. ‘Holy crap’ thought I. “Have you come to riiiide?” bellowed he. “Have you come to riiiiiiide? Now show me how you riiiide!” No reaction (other than riiiiding). Just bent heads and whirring peddles. ‘It must be an American thing, I thought.’ Then a couple of the riders actually ‘whooped.’ Yes, I was horrified. I would have jumped off my bike and promptly left, had my feet not been stuck in the straps.

That was then. Now, I get to class early. I set up my bike with the psyched-up precision of an athlete before a big race. When the spin ‘guru’ looks at me I peddle faster. Can’t help myself. I want to please him. I have never whooped, nor will I. But what if a whoop slips out one day, just a little one, in the heat of the moment? How would I live with myself? What would my British friends think?

Father, forgive me, for I am a spinner.